


Abuse of Power

by suitesamba



Series: LWS Challenge 15 Bingo 2 [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-18
Updated: 2014-09-18
Packaged: 2018-02-17 20:07:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2321711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suitesamba/pseuds/suitesamba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock has wreaked havoc and been sent home, Mycroft surveys the damage.</p>
<p>Written for Let's Write Sherlock, Challenge 15, Trope Bingo. Card 1/Sharing a Bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Abuse of Power

**Author's Note:**

> This is story 3 in this arc. Follows "Four Man Huddle" and "The Caretakers."

Mycroft stands in the doorway, looking a hair on the near side of completely put-together.

“They’re gone?” Greg asks, scooting up a bit in bed, dragging his splinted foot to the edge of the pillow stack in doing so. 

“Gone.” Mycroft looks around the room, blinking, as if the disorder will disappear when he closes his eyes. “My brother – ”

“Stole my grabber,” Greg says. “Abused my bears, ran John ragged and devised a marvelous drinking game that would have been a helluva lot more fun had John allowed us any alcohol.”

“He’s a child,” Mycroft says, but he smiles as he says it, and takes two steps inside the room, eyes still surveying the damage.

Greg is shaking his head. “He’s a brilliant adult playing the child, and he got exactly what he wanted in the end.” He pats the bed beside him and scoots over a few inches, grimacing a bit as he adjusts his leg. “It’s fine, Mycroft. I appreciate the thought, anyway. And I wasn’t bored all day.”

“No, I imagine you weren’t.”

Mycroft sits on the edge of the bed, then bends to untie his shoelaces. He slips off one shoe, then the other, lining them up beside the bed, heels touching and in line with the bed ruffle. He sits back up and loosens his necktie, untying it deftly and draping it neatly over the low footboard. 

“You’re a welcome sight, you know,” Greg says. He watches Mycroft’s long fingers pluck open the top two buttons of his shirt, then ease open the cuffs. The buttons of his suit vest are next, and he shrugs out of the garment and drapes it atop the tie, then scoots back until he is half-reclining in bed beside Greg.

Their hands find each other, lacing together and squeezing tightly. Build-up is still slow between them, as they settle into all the nuances of a relationship.

Odd, that. 

It hadn’t started with physical attraction, a stolen kiss, a fumble in the back of one of Mycroft’s ubiquitous black cars. It had started with Mycroft at Greg’s office door, with a pocket overflowing with credentials, formally requesting a word with him about the recently apprehended suspect in a high-profile homicide. 

A suspect identified, coincidentally, by the other Holmes brother.

Mycroft sat, rather primly, on the chair in front of Greg’s desk. Greg gamely cleared space on the desktop for Mycroft’s file folders. An hour later, Greg suggested coffee. They walked together to the café across the street to get it and sat there through two hours and three refills.

They traded war stories about Sherlock. They moved to a pub around the corner. Greg brought up _the_ question – the oft-debated question in his circle, the one that had inspired a betting pool and more water cooler talk than the serial killer they’d apprehended two years ago. 

John and Sherlock – just friends or something more?

Mycroft looked down into his pint. He was unaccustomed to drinking such plebian beverages. He was even less accustomed to discussing his personal life. And his brother, for good or for ill, was part of that life.

“You know!” Greg pulled his chair in even closer. His hand closed over Mycroft’s on the pint glass, preventing him from lifting it up. It was their first bit of physical contact, and Mycroft stared at Greg’s hand, warm on his cold fingers.

Curious.

“I suspect,” he clarified, as Greg grinned.

Greg looked like the cat that ate the canary.

Now, lying side by side, hands clasped between them, easing into these outward displays of affection at a steady pace, that surely seems glacial to Greg, Mycroft chuckles.

Greg turns his head so his face is only inches from Mycroft’s. Mycroft smiles infrequently, laughs rarely. The chuckle is a surprise. A welcome one. He is growing more at ease with Greg, with their bodies, with shared space, even with this shared bed, hours still before bedtime.

“What’s funny?” Greg asks. He’s nearly forgotten his broken leg, at least for the moment, and he watches crinkles appear around Mycroft’s eyes.

Mycroft lets out another undignified chuckle.

“Sherlock,” he manages, “is insane.”

Greg follows Mycroft’s gaze to the bedpost where the Mycroft bear is still tied. It looks a bit desperate, if plushies can look that way, arms stretched over its head and tied round the post with a blue necktie. The bear’s trousers and pants are pushed down around its ankles.

“I didn’t notice before – but is that one of your Brioni ties?”

Mycroft’s chortle turns into a whimper.

Now Greg chuckles. “We’ll get him back. I’ll set up a drug search in his flat and confiscate his Belstaff. And that stupid hat.”

“Oh – I love how you think.” Mycroft rolls to his side and faces Greg. It takes the barest of stretches for their lips to meet. Greg sighs into the kiss. It’s a pleasant welcome home after an uncomfortable and chaotic day. Then Mycroft scoots closer, groaning in pleasure as he tucks himself in against Greg and whispers in to his neck.

“Abuse of power is so arousing.”


End file.
